The apple’s shot through,
Wormy and brown but it is her lunch.

Through her hood, she sees the buzzing market.
She is condoned as always, the ***** brown

That harbours near the fruit man, like an unwanted
Sofa, lumpy and ******. Only her grandma-fingers palm through.

Her mane of rags render translucent pebbles of benevolence:
A rare cinematic view of the world, her weary eyes absorbs every colour.

It is gentle and kind these holes: a myopic happiness
That triggers this lady to jump about, and holler and

Holler until the random clanks in her stainless steel
Plate drum up impressive beats. It is encouraging to her,

This sympathetic validation. Though she knows
false hopes don’t hold up too long. It is her sunrise,

The kind of thing we often take for granted.
She cradles the apple (the raggedy couple symbiotic in nature),

Smoothing out its ciders. It is her afternoon’s asset,
Tasting as foreign as mother’s milk.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002